


Not From Around Here, But Here Just the Same

by gingasaur



Category: Sanctuary (TV), Stargate SG-1
Genre: 1930s, Crossover, Gen, Stargate: Continuum, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingasaur/pseuds/gingasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took him three months to get out of the habit of calling her Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not From Around Here, But Here Just the Same

_1930_

She meets him on a cold night in March. Although, “meet” isn’t quite the word she would use; they don’t so much meet as stumble into each other. He’s teetering his way out of a crowded bar, drunk out of his mind and blathering incoherently. No one pursues him, but it’s clear that he’s just been in quite a fight; the blood dripping out of a gash on his cheek tells her that much. The fact that he takes a thankfully weak and misaimed swing at her before collapsing into her arms is a fairly good clue, too.

“My name is Helen Magnus,” she tells him as they sink toward the ground. “I’m a doctor; will you let me help you?”

The man seems to be delirious and the pungent aroma of cheap alcohol is all over him. There’s a full and scruffy beard on his face, but his eyes, blue and bright, seem painfully young. Not youthful young, but not old enough to be alone and smashed on a chilly spring night, either.

He’s mumbling again, but it’s nothing she can make out. She places a hand on his forehead and silently curses to herself; he’s radiating heat, and she can tell he’s not going to be conscious for much longer.

Just before he passes out, his eyes finally manage to meet hers.

“Good God, Sam,” he says to her. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

 

 _1931_

Cam’s never really had a taste for tea. He always liked to think of himself as a strictly coffee-drinking kind of guy, which made it all the more ironic that he managed to end up with the only woman in this city who downs nothing but Earl Grey like it’s going out of style.

Still, he’d never be so rude as to refuse it, especially not from the woman who saved his life in more ways than one.

It took him three months to get out of the habit of calling her Sam. Her name is _Helen_ , Helen Magnus, and he had to tell this to himself over and over again. She just looks so much like her, though he wonders if his mind’s merely playing tricks on him, showing him similarities that aren’t really there. It’s all in the smile, he thinks. The eyes and the smile. Sometimes, despite his better judgment, he just stares at her, and thoughts of staff blasts and Arctic ice creep into his mind. Not a day goes by where this doesn’t happen. Not a day goes by where his heart doesn’t ache for his team.

He knew this would be hard. Ten years is an awfully long time, especially when it’s ten years in a time he doesn’t know, ten years in a time that doesn’t know him. He knew he would have to lay low and keep out of trouble, and he’s already failed on the keeping out of trouble front. But this is why he feels all the more lucky to have found Helen; she’s incredibly kind, incredibly generous, and incredibly not inclined to take any of his crap. She’s managed to keep him grounded, level-headed, and focused on enduring just by letting him stay with her. She even agreed to let him do odd jobs for her in lieu of paying rent, and he’s sure he’d be forever grateful if not for the fact that he won’t remember her after this is all over.

He takes a sip of his tea and before he knows it, he’s staring at her again, and she catches him in the act. It’s always fairly embarrassing, not to mention awkward. It’s not like he can tell her anything. What would he even say? “Gee, Helen, you’re not gonna believe this, but you are just the spittin’ image of my dead friend. My dead friend from 77 years in the future.” Right. Helen’s a smart lady, and there’s no way she’d ever believe anything like that. Besides, he has a timeline to keep intact. Or… as intact as humanly possible, anyway.

“Cameron,” Helen says, smiling gently and snapping him out of his little stupor. “There’s something I’d like to show you tonight.”

It takes him a minute for it to sink in. _Tonight._ His eyebrows raise. No, this couldn’t possibly… He certainly can’t deny that she’s _painfully_ attractive, but- but he could _never-_

“Tonight?” he asks suspiciously.

Helen chuckles softly. “That’s _not_ a proposition, thank you very much.” Cam’s shoulders sag with his exhalation, and she laughs harder. “Well, don’t be so relieved!”

He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head, an amused grin still on her face. “You must wonder by now what it is that I do for a living.”

His brows furrow with confusion. “You’re a doctor. I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but give me a little credit here.”

“Yes, I _am_ a doctor. But there’s a little more to it than that.”

“A little more to it,” he repeats. “What, you… deal on the black market? Buy and sell other people’s organs?”

She rolls her eyes. “Good heavens, no.”

“You’re a fugitive,” he guesses.

“Cameron.”

“You killed somebody and I’ve been staying with a fugitive.”

“ _Cameron._ ” She gives him a look, and it shuts him up. Placing her teacup on the table in front of them, she rises out of her chair and pulls a small slip of paper from the pocket of her jacket. She crosses over to him and places it in the palm of his hand, keeping her fingers there until she’s sure he’s paying proper attention.

“Come to this address tonight,” she says. “I’m sure this won’t do anything to allay your growing paranoia, but do make sure to come alone.”

“Well,” Cam replies, slowly unfolding the paper, “you’re right about the growing paranoia part…” He trails off as he looks at the address. “This is down by the docks,” he remarks. “There’s nothing down there.”

Helen merely smiles at him as she turns and leaves the room.

 

 _1933_

What he wouldn’t give for P-90’s to exist right about now.

“MAGNUS!” he screams as he fires into the shadows with this clumsy little pistol they apparently called a gun. “Where the hell did you go?!”

He doesn’t get an answer, but he does hear a very loud, hellish screech. A loud, hellish screech that sounds like it’s right on top of him.

He’s on the floor in a matter of seconds, landing hard on his stomach and knocking the wind right out of him. His fingers grope aimlessly in the darkness as he attempts to grab his gun, but he feels a whoosh of air next to his face, and then there’s a skittering sound. The bastard must’ve knocked it away with what he’s going to assume is his tail, although with that sharp little scythe on the end of it, it really seems like “vicious weapon of maiming and killing” would be a better title for it.

The creature screeches again, and the full moon up in the clouds provides just enough light for Cam to be able to make out two pincers, two pincers that are way way _way_ too close to his face. He grabs them with both hands, struggling to keep them from doing something nasty like gouging out his eyes, and the creature responds by hissing and slicing his tail blade into Cam’s cheek.

Two shots ring out and something splatters onto his face. The creature unleashes a pained, ragged cry before it slumps forward. Cam curses under his breath and shoves it off of him, scrambling to his feet and spitting what he _really_ hopes is _not_ creature guts out of his mouth.

He hears heels clicking across the pavement, and never has he been so glad to see Helen. She cautiously makes her way out of the shadows, her gun aimed at the creature’s still form.

“Are you all right?” she asks him, not taking her eyes off her target.

“ _NO!_ ” he shouts. “No, I am not _all right!_ ” He points rather dramatically at the creature. “He nearly made me his very cut up dinner, and you want to _tag_ him and _bring him home?!_ ” If this kind of thing were standard protocol at the SGC, he swears he would’ve been dead a long time ago.

“Assuming I haven’t just unceremoniously ended his life, yes.” She kneels down next to it, eyeing it carefully. Cam backs away very quickly.

It’s silent for a few moments, save for the sounds of Helen’s voice as she periodically asks him to pass her supplies. The creature stays down the entire time, and Cam’s awfully grateful to watch Helen binding its pincers like it’s a lobster at the supermarket. He sighs and runs a hand across his face.

“You have a real aptitude for this, you know,” Helen tells him. “You realize you don’t even flinch when these fellows come out of the woodwork.”

He chuckles weakly. “Yeah, well. Believe it or not, I’ve seen my share of wacky things.” He really has to resist the urge to say “wonko”.

“Oh, I believe it. Why do you think I invited you to do this with me in the first place?”

He glances at her for a moment, and she’s smiling at him.

“I don’t know,” Cam says. “Why _did_ you?”

Her smile grows. “Just a feeling, that’s all.”

She ties off the last of the creature’s bindings and motions in the direction of the crate they’d brought with them. Cam’s never sure how these things are supposed to hold these guys, but somehow, it works. He’s glad this one’s out cold so he won’t have to listen to it rattling around the whole way back.

“Listen,” he says as he plops the crate down next to Helen. “There’s something I gotta tell you.”

“What is it?” Together, they hoist the creature up and lower it into the box as gently as possible.

Cam hesitates. He trusts Helen – a lot – but he’s still not sure how far he can go with this. “I’m not gonna be able to do this forever,” he finally declares. “In fact, I really need to _avoid_ injury as much as possible. I really need to avoid it for…”

Helen watches him as she wipes dirt from her hands. She looks vaguely concerned, and he presses on. “…for about six more years.”

She says nothing, but her expression shifts to something softer.

“There’s something really important that I have to do,” Cam continues. “I… I _really_ can’t talk about it, but come 1939, I won’t be able to do this anymore.”

He watches her standing there, silently studying him, and swallows. He figures he was vague enough that it won’t screw things up even more than they already are.

After a few moments, Helen speaks again. Her voice seems awfully quiet. “You’re really not from around here, are you, Mr. Mitchell?”

Christ. She hasn’t called him “Mr. Mitchell” since 1930.

“Well,” Helen finally says, lifting their supply pack off the ground, “if it’s injury you need to avoid until the end of the decade, then I suppose I’ll just have to do my best to protect you until then.” He spies a hint of a smirk on her face, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

“Great,” Cam says, and he really means it. “So this guy’s going to the Shoe tonight for sure.”

Helen laughs, full of mirth. “For sure.”

 

 _1936_

He figures it’s about time to start reading up on seafaring ships. He starts with a Navy recruitment pamphlet and ends with _Moby Dick._ By the time he and Helen are ringing in 1937, he’s paced the halls of the Sanctuary dozens of times with dozens of books in tow.

Helen doesn’t ask any questions, but his seemingly newfound interest in nautical vessels doesn’t go unnoticed. Every so often, she brings a new book home for him, and when he’s finished with it, she files it away in the library. He thinks his research has to be responsible for filling up at least two rows of shelves in there.

Other things happen around his thoughts swimming out into open water: they catch tons of new abnormals, for one. Most of them are friendly, only a handful are potentially deadly, and he can count on one hand the number who had to go to the Shoe.

It’s a good year. It’s the year that he drinks Earl Grey without inwardly wincing.

It’s also the year that Helen finally calls him Cam.

 

 _1938_

The closer he gets, the rougher the nights become. He dreams of the most horrific failures, where he misses the boat by just one second or he gets on the boat and it sinks on the way back from Africa or he just drops dead for no reason the day before it’s all supposed to go down.

These are the nights where he’ll wander his way through the halls and travel up, up, up to the roof. It’s nice up here, nice and quiet. The view of the city lights, small and bright as they reflect off of the river in the darkness, is exquisite. He can see why Helen likes it up here so much, although he’d never stand right on the parapets like she does (he’s not _that_ crazy.)

Instead, he looks out into the night, feels the cool breeze on his face, and just breathes. Somehow, it brings everything back into perspective. When he closes his eyes, he swears the others are standing here with him, and he treasures these little gifts his imagination gives him. Teal’c’s off to his right, standing with his chin raised and his hands behind his back, smiling softly as he gazes up at the sky. Carter’s next to him, and some nights she just can’t resist the opportunity to rattle off dozens of tidbits about the few constellations they can make out. Jackson and Vala are on his left, and she’s always teasing him, and he’s always rolling his eyes, and Cam’s always chuckling softly to himself at the two of them bickering, as usual, like an old married couple.

Some nights, he eases out of the illusion like it was a pleasant dream. Other nights, Landry’s voice breaks through, abruptly slicing the whole thing in two: “ _You don’t have the right!_ ”

Helen explained her longevity thing to him a few years ago, not long after he’d sort-of-vaguely-confessed that he’s not exactly from this time period. He recalls what she said to him then, remembers how he thought it sounded just like something Carter would say: “Fate is not pre-determined, Cameron. Every decision we make and every action we pursue, _that_ is our fate. We are all the masters of our own destinies, for better or for worse.” She’d taken a long sip of tea then and looked him straight in the eye. “Fate is not pre-determined,” she’d repeated, “and I should know that better than anyone.”

He repeats her words to himself as he takes a final glance up at the sky. Landry may have been correct, they may _not_ have the right. Cam, however, would move the stars, every single one, to put everything back the way it was. He’d move entire constellations by hand to bring his friends back from their untimely and, quite frankly, _wrong_ deaths.

He thanks Helen silently, taps a palm against the parapet and turns to leave without a word.

 

 _1939_

They stand shoulder to shoulder at the dock, gazing up at the ship. His ship. Not _literally_ his, but it might as well be. He’s been waiting for it for ten years, after all.

“ _Achilles_ ,” Helen reads aloud. She raises an eyebrow. “Is that really such a wise name for a ship?”

Cam smiles. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the salty air. Every so often a foghorn roars throughout the harbor, rattling the planks beneath their feet.

He really thought this would be a lot easier.

“Cam.” He turns to look at her, and she’s smiling at him with that same gentle smile, but there’s something different in her eyes this time. Something lonely. Something sad. She clearly has something she wants to say, but she blinks rapidly and looks away from him, casting her eyes downward.

She really doesn’t have to say anything to him, though. Spending every day together for the past decade – nine years, if he wants to get that exact – that’s got to count for something. He takes a step forward and puts his arms around her, embracing her tightly. She reciprocates.

“Thank you,” Cam murmurs into her ear. “For everything.”

“Same to you, my dear friend,” she quietly says. “Same to you.”

They stay like that for a few moments, probably a few more moments than necessary, and break their hug very slowly only when the _Achilles_ ’s foghorn booms. It’s probably time to go, and Cam thinks that maybe he can get away without actually _saying_ goodbye. He moves to lift his bag from the dock, but Helen gives his arms a gentle squeeze and locks her gaze with his.

“Whatever it is you’re going to do,” she says, “I have no doubt your cause is noble. Good luck.”

He has no idea what to say to that. This whole thing is quickly becoming a lot more emotional than he ever thought possible.

“Oh, uh, before I forget…” he begins. “Give Billy a few extra treats for me today, would you?”

Helen regards him with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and bafflement. “ _Billy?_ You named our dragon _Billy?_ ”

Cam shrugs. “Would you rather I named him Daryl?”

Her laughter bubbles up from deep inside her chest, and she sighs. “Oh, how I’m going to miss you.”

He smiles warmly, maybe a little regretfully. “Well, with any luck, hopefully you won’t.”

Taking a small step back, he straightens and brings his hand up in a salute.

“It’s been an honor, Helen,” he says.

She swallows hard and returns the gesture. “It certainly has.”

 

 _2008_

She meets him on a warm afternoon in July.

She came to Colorado with Henry to investigate reports of a particularly vicious brand of pine tree-dwelling abnormal. So far, nothing had turned up. Frustrated and growing increasingly weary, she decided to give them a day off, one day of leisurely exploration before they’d try again and head home. Maybe in their travels, they’d see something worth noting, or maybe they’d just find some interesting things to read on their return trip.

It’s in a little bookstore nestled in the middle of a row of local shops that they bump into each other, literally. The impact sends both of their potential purchases tumbling to the floor, and they both laugh, embarrassed at their carelessness.

As they bend down to scoop up their dropped books, they get a good look at each other’s faces, and without realizing it, they both pause.

Helen’s the first to break their silence. “A pyramid pop-up book?” she asks, gingerly handing it to him.

His cheeks flush slightly pink and he mentally berates himself for staring. “Uh, yeah,” Cam replies. “It’s, uh, it’s for my friend. It’s supposed to be kind of a joke; it’s his birthday next week, and he’s a huge archaeology nerd.” He looks down at Helen’s book. “ _Moby Dick_ ,” he says as he passes it to her.

She nods. “My copy’s awfully worn. If I don’t get a new one, it’s bound to fall apart for good.”

“That good, huh?” Cam asks. “I’ve never read it. I mean, I know the story, but I’ve never gotten around to actually reading it.”

“Oh, it’s really quite lovely,” she replies. “Truly a masterpiece.”

“So I’ve heard.”

They exchange pleasant smiles and turn in opposite directions, but Cam stops to look back at Helen. Something compels him to go after her, so he does.

“Hey, uh… hi again,” he says, feeling somewhat idiotic. He’s going to cross his fingers that the look on Helen’s face is one of amusement. “This is gonna sound ridiculous, and I promise it’s not some kind of weird pick-up line, but… you just look really familiar to me and I…” He feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into this silly hole he’s dug for himself. _Just spit it out, you idiot._ “Have we met before?”

Helen smirks. “Not a pick-up line, is it?”

Cam’s ears feel awfully warm. “I promise. Really. But, you know, now that I’ve said it, I don’t know. We… we clearly haven’t. I’m really sorry, this was incredibly stupid.” He motions behind him. “I think I’m just gonna go look like a moron over here now.”

She chuckles. “It’s quite all right,” she tells him. “In another life, perhaps our paths had crossed.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Maybe in another life.”

Cam gives her a quick wave as he leaves. Her eyes stay glued to him until he disappears behind the shelves.

She smiles.


End file.
